


Borders

by Aella_Antiope



Series: Balance [4]
Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Violence, Polyfidelity, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con References, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aella_Antiope/pseuds/Aella_Antiope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Wolfram and Yuuri are investigating reports of minor bandit attacks along the eastern border, things go terribly wrong when the Maou unleashes his power.  Murata and Wolfram must deal with the fallout and their strained relationship.  The fourth story in the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/5702">Balance Universe</a> set eight years after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/129419/chapters/183882">Balance</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borders

**Author's Note:**

> This was betaed by HARPG0 and as per usual all mistakes are mine.

Yuuri wandered out onto the balcony. The beams of the sun had yet to fall over the horizon but the sky was already light and he could clearly see the lake and the beautiful mountains behind them. It was truly a stunning view. Yuuri allowed the presence of the Maou to enter his mind, not flinching away as he had for the last few weeks, as he sent a mental apology.

 _“Not now. You need to give me time.”_

Yuuri could feel a deep sadness from the Maou, but there was little he could do at that moment. Yuuri desperately needed the space, time away from the spirit, as much as he needed the time away from the political climate back at the castle, back in Shin Makoku.

Behind him, he could hear Wolfram talking softly to Murata, both of them still in bed only now stirring. Wolfram had become a lighter sleeper lately. Yuuri’s mind shied away from the reason that was so, but couldn’t escape the guilt.

Today, they would have a horse ride on the beach, and he’d enjoy the luxury of taking a drive to the coast in a car. He’d nag Murata into leaving his netbook and wireless modem behind; his second husband was way too fond of the Internet and electronic communication devices.

Yuuri’s mind turned sombre studying his hand as he gripped the railing. He touched the silver ring on his finger lightly, wondering how he could get so lucky when he didn’t deserve this, _any_ of this.

He remembered the events which had led him to this place, giving him time to recover after...what had happened near the border. Yuuri had accepted this trip so as not to upset those who loved him the most. Besides, Shin Makoku needed him, and as Conrad had said, the Kingdom needed him sound and whole.

So, here he was on Earth, through a quirk of physics he could control but which he had never really understood. He was able to gain that time to recover without leaving his kingdom for long. He’d not have that luxury at the castle, not with war brewing.

“And it’s not just me that needs that time,” he said softly as he gazed over the calm lake, wishing his mind could be just as still.

 

~***~

 

Six weeks earlier

Over the last two weeks, Murata had managed to distract himself sufficiently from worry. Yuuri was out with Wolfram’s troops on the border. The reports they had received before they had left were of minor raids, most likely bandits. Yuuri wanted to see firsthand the escalating situation, and nobody could budge him from his decision.

In some ways, Murata thought it would be good for him. The carefree days of adventure from their teenage years had long gone after peace had been settled with the human nations, and most travel now involved large escorts. Yuuri didn’t get to see as much of the country as he used to.

Normally, Wolfram would have sent a report back by messenger bird. But, at this time of the season, it wasn’t possible and this trip would be the last before even the roads around the inner province became impassable. Wolfram and his men had dealt with worse than a few bandits and bad weather. Not to mention, the Maou was the most powerful thing in the kingdom, arguably the whole world. So, it was a waste of energy worrying.

When the King and the Prince Consort returned, Murata was tutoring eight year old Huber in maths.

The sound of the horses on the cobbles outside the window and the bells ringing for the servants’ attention alerted them.

“Uncle?” Huber asked, big brown eyes full of curiosity and hope of being able to escape from his least favourite subject.

“Your grandfather’s party has returned, so we’ll stop here.”

Huber looked out the window longingly.

He gave the boy a smile and said not unkindly, “You know you are forbidden down in the courtyard when things are hectic. You should go see to your mother and sister.” Murata gestured to the door. Greta was assisting Lord von Christ with the castle archives in the library and didn’t like having any of her children in the courtyard when a military party was returning and Murata agreed.

Huber looked only a little disappointed, but the delight of escape from classes trumped everything and, with a happy grin, the boy dashed off

“And make sure to practice those equations,” Murata called out after him in exasperation before the door crashed shut. The boy was good with languages and history and was, as von Christ always said, a delight to tutor in those subjects. But the sciences were a struggle. Huber wasn’t that keen on swordsmanship, either, despite Wolfram’s stubborn endeavours. Huber was trying for the sake of the grandpapa he worshiped, but things would come to a head in due course.

Huber’s little sister, Muriel, would always be hovering around, longingly, watching Huber train with blunted practice swords – he’d have to come up with a way to let Wolfram know that he was pinning his ambitions on the wrong grandchild.

Few women picked up the sword. It wasn’t encouraged in Shin Makoku as anything more than a matter of self-defence and a hobby for aristocratic women, but it wasn’t entirely discouraged as a career in the lower classes. Sir Weller had two women in his squad. Muriel may be the daughter of a princess, but she was human and had no title. There would be few expectations from the noble class.

Murata felt that the aristocratic indifference would be a blessing, giving Huber and Muriel more freedom to choose what they wanted. That freedom would offer them the best education and guidance any human child could have in Shin Makoku without the crushing expectations of duty.

Dismissing those thoughts, Murata straightened his ponytail and adjusted his jacket as he went out to meet the king. He tried to keep a dignified front as he hastened down the stairs, as befitting his image as Great Sage and Second-husband of the King. Many eyes would be upon him. The escalating conflicts on the border had become a matter of concern and the people were looking to him for reassurance.

Murata met Sir Weller as they went down the side spiral stairs that exited onto the courtyard and they exchanged brief greetings. Sir Weller was limping slightly, the almost fatal sword wound from six months prior had taken him away from active duty. Sir Weller would have wanted to be on this patrol and Murata knew it galled the captain that his injuries had confined him for now, and away from his position beside the king.

The wintry courtyard was organised chaos as forty or so of the soldiers dismounted. Young stable boys were scampering about, darting closer to the horses to keep them calm while dodging the taller riders. The horses were snorting warm plumes of air and tossing their heads, looking forward to a good scrub down and hay.

The snow that had covered the cobbles was now black with mud and Murata was grateful for his sturdy boots as he skirted around the troops with Weller. He nodded to Gisela, two nurses in tow, as customary every time troops returned from duty. This formality had become more important with an increase of fighting involving mazoku soldiers.

This time there appeared to be no injuries and Murata was relieved.

Murata found Yuuri by the brilliant blond hair of Wolfram, bleached lighter in the sun with the frequent field work he’d been doing since the crisis in Dai Shimaron.

Wolfram had grown taller than Yuuri and Murata in the last two years in his most recent, and final, growth spurt. The prince had not filled out as much as his brothers. But what he lacked in bulk, he more than made up for with skill with mounted combat and his mazoku elemental skill. He’d witnessed Wolfram fight a few times; he was quick and had excellent reflexes.

Murata had no doubt that if given freedom over his fate as a mazoku noble, Wolfram would have done well in the cavalry with skill alone. As Prince Consort, he’d been conferred a lot of automatic privilege in rank and position, and had struggled over the years to prove his worth in the field and in front of his men as more than just an attractive mascot. Murata thought he’d performed admirably.

Yuuri and Wolfram were heading towards them, their clothes covered with old blood, boots crunching in the blackened snow. Yuuri was in Maou form.

“This won’t be good news.” Sir Weller murmured softly and Murata agreed.

Murata knew that the merged bond between Yuuri and the Maou was more complicated than Yuuri let on. His husband could usually sway the spirit so Yuuri could channel it’s power. Yuuri used the Maou persona to mask any negative emotion—grief, anger or fear – asking the Maou to take over the situation while Yuuri hid, either mute or aware, or, sometimes, as he had admitted once to Murata, Yuuri would hide.

The Maou was far more resilient to the horrors of the world.

The Maou paused and looked them over impassively. Wolfram was to his right and slightly behind.

“Your Majesty, Wolfram,” Sir Weller greeted them, and Murata nodded as equal. As Great Sage, he need not make the first address in public, as Weller had.

“The village at Abney was destroyed by enemies of Shin Makoku. There were no survivors. We eliminated the threat.” Wolfram spoke first, not bothering with any pleasantries; an utterly impersonal briefing though a small side-look at Yuuri, heavy with worry, undermined his poise.

The Maou spoke, his voice deep and loud enough for all those in the courtyard to hear and everyone froze, no longer pretending to ears drop, “Justice was served. Those men killed children and innocents.”

The look on the Maou’s face grew terrifying.

Wolfram exchanged a look of concern with Murata. “Conrad, I’ll need to go debrief Gwendal and Günter. Could you please set up a meeting? Murata...” Wolfram faltered, his eyes were wet with emotion.

There was so much Murata wanted to ask Wolfram. He wanted to hug Wolfram and Yuuri and comfort them. But this was the not the place and it wasn’t appropriate. Only the Maou Demon King could get away with initiating public affection, and Yuuri never did because it made Wolfram uncomfortable.

“Shibuya, you should rest. We can retire to our chambers.” Murata addressed the Maou, rescuing Wolfram from any public humiliation. The slitted eyes regarded him silently and he nodded in acknowledgement.

Wolfram nodded to them, looking relieved to have Murata take over the Maou’s care as he went back to talk to Sir Wagner with Sir Weller.

As they entered the flight of steps, Murata could almost feel the relief from those behind with the Maou’s departure.

~***~

No sooner had they entered their rooms, Yuuri buckled against the closed ornate door. The Maou retreated to wherever it came from in Yuuri’s soul.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri had covered his mouth and was shaking.

“Yuuri...love?”

Murata stretched his arms out in an attempt to draw Yuuri closer to him.

“No... _don’t!_ ” Yuuri flinched away and slid down onto the floor, drawing his knees up against his chest protectively.

“Oh, Yuuri.”

Murata got down on his knees and touched Yuuri’s elbow lightly, trying to draw some eye contact. Murata wished Wolfram were here. Yuuri would benefit from having both of them here, and he was sure Wolfram needed some comforting too.

Yuuri’s eyes were large and wet, his hands still shaking.

“I don’t deserve your touch. I’m a _monster_.”

Yuuri’s eyes weren’t even looking at him, still reflective of some horror he’d seen.

“I killed those men...no, I didn’t just kill them. I tore them apart.” Yuuri shuddered and, as impossible as it seemed, curled in even further than before. He looked up at him once and then turned his face away, as if terrified of what he’d see in Murata’s eyes.

That would explain the blood stains. Though, it didn’t matter one whit to Murata. He knew that Yuuri would do no harm without good cause or provocation.

Whatever the case, platitudes would be of no use when the hurt was so fresh in Yuuri‘s mind. So Murata didn’t even try. Murata pulled Yuuri into his arms, unresponsive in spite of his initial protest.

Yuuri was still trembling, and very silent. After a few moments stroking Yuuri’s broad back, he gently grabbed Yuuri’s hand and led him to the bedroom and sat him on the leather upholstered divan.

For now, Murata would be Murata-Sage, his older persona coming to the fore as he sifted through his memories to handle Yuuri and his shock.

The best thing, he thought, was to let Yuuri know he was there for him, not to push, not so quickly. Murata would then give Yuuri some sedatives for sleep and deal with things tomorrow as they arose. Wolfram would have arranged for a bath to be set up in the fire warmed common room, as was customary after a field trip, and that would also help--slow, soothing, keeping to the usual habits.

There was little he could do otherwise, Murata thought, allowing himself to return to his usual self, back to the present. With a large intake of breath, Yuuri started weeping, softly in broken small gasps and Murata continued to sooth him, one arm around Yuuri’s waist, another cradling his head on Murata’s shoulder. He would get some travel grime on him and Yuuri smelt terrible, but no matter, his clothes could be washed and Murata could cope with the smell.

A week ago, Wolfram’s soldiers would have seen a creature of vengeance ripping men apart, men who could have arguably gotten their just deserts after having murdered innocents, but still a terrible and awesome fate. But here, in his private chambers, Yuuri’s husbands would only see a weeping man, gentle soul torn over the pain and death that he wrought, haunted by the bodies of the villagers, especially the women and little ones.

Murata wondered where the Maou had gone. What the Maou felt with Yuuri in such distress. Would the spirit comprehend Yuuri’s pain? Was it even capable? Abney was a village that was over five day’s hard riding away. Had the Maou taken over on the return journey all that way?

The raw emotional breakdown from Yuuri pointed to that theory. If so, it was unprecedented and it concerned Murata.

“Come on,” Murata said gently as Yuuri’s hiccupping gasps subsided. “Let’s remove your clothes.”

He helped Yuuri out of his jacket. Tears were leaking from Yuuri’s eyes and they were remote, his body mildly obedient. Murata placed the blood stained and muddied garments distastefully in a pile. These would have to be burned. He spoke to Yuuri all the while about the mundane matters of court and family and friends, of Huber’s studies and Muriel’s excitement with her new horse riding lessons with Sir Weller, Lord von Voltaire’s sleepless worry of his baby’s crying even with Lady Anissina’s no-fret parenting attitude.

Murata doubted that Yuuri comprehended anything he said, but it was his voice that was important, telling Yuuri behind the shock and pain that he was there, that he wasn’t alone.

The door opened and Wolfram appeared, weary and subdued, his field jacket removed.

“I’ve arranged the bath in the common room,” Wolfram told Murata softly his voice sounding flat and tired.

Murata nodded. He was curious to know what had transpired with the debriefing, but that would have to wait.

The bath looked inviting, steam from the water rising from the portable copper bathtub that the servants had brought up and filled, scented with Wolfram’s favourite fragrance which reminded Murata of vanilla.

Murata longingly wished it could hold more than two as he watched Wolfram strip down efficiently. _More_ clothes that was unsalvageable. Then again, perhaps not as he looked at the flaking blood that coated some parts of Yuuri and Wolfram’s skin. There was little opportunity for bathing in winter on the roads. Cleaning would have been very basic. Fortunately, Murata had bathed that morning.

Wolfram settled himself in the bath and held his arm out to take Yuuri into his lap. Yuuri was docile, a breathing doll, eyes open, no longer weeping and this behaviour worried Murata more than the crying.

The water in the bath was high enough to reach mid waist, sitting down. Slowly Wolfram washed Yuuri’s skin clean.

Yuuri’s eyes fluttered and then closed as Wolfram rinsed the soapy water from his dark skin, giving Yuuri tender butterfly kisses behind his ear to comfort. To see Yuuri hurting so, and by extension, Wolfram, brought an almost physical pain in Murata’s chest.

To stop himself from worrying, Murata went to gather some towels and his husbands’ nightclothes and hastily changed into his own. Tonight, they would retire early. Murata put the kettle on the hot plate above the wood stove, removing some pungent velerium powder from a blue jar in the cupboard to the right. Yuuri was particularly susceptible to the typically mild sedative which Murata painstakingly grinded from the velerium root every few months. It helped him rest when he had occasional migraines. The drug would knock Yuuri out for the night and a good part of the next day.

Much needed rest for the mind.

~***~

They settled Yuuri on the bed; he was already drowsy with the sedatives. By unspoken agreement, they laid Yuuri between them.

Murata watched as Yuuri’s aura changed density, until he was in deep slumber.

“What happened?” He asked Wolfram. Murata knew he’d find out all the details in the report but he needed to hear what Wolfram had to say.

“When we arrived, Abney had already been sacked, less than a day, I’d say. The houses were still burning. The villagers who were able tried to defend it, but they had no chance. They were farmers.... millers. Their bodies were scattered across the square, cut down by swords. The elderly and young appeared to have sought shelter in the local temple with the priestesses, but the barbarians set fire to the temple.” Wolfram’s voice was distant, mechanical as he detailed what had happened, probably a recitation of the debriefing.

“We found some of their bodies scattered around the entrance. I think...when they tried to escape the enemy ran them through, _all_ of them, except for some of the priestesses and some youths. Yuuri found them dumped not far from the village. They were raped before they were killed. The evidence was obvious. We _weren’t_ even in time to rescue them. We must have only missed it by a few hours, maybe less.”

The regret was palpable. “What could-have-beens” and “if-onlys” were a major unhappiness with mortals. Murata knew he had his fair share. But focusing on it was destructive and futile. It was healthier to focus on the now.

Murata squeezed Wolfram’s hand as the prince tried to contain his distress. The youngest of the former queen’s sons had been too young to have fought in the wars his brothers had been in, but after years of military service and border patrol, he had seen his fair share of horrors, much more than Yuuri who, by necessity of his position, was often confined to the castle and the inner provinces.

If Wolfram had been affected by the pillaging, then it must have been bad. Murata didn’t have to imagine the scenario. He’d had many memories of such scenes to draw upon. Humans were depressingly predictable.

“It was easy to catch up with them, even without the Maou’s assistance. They were sloppy.” Wolfram disgust was evident. “They stood no chance...there was no need of my men. The Maou destroyed them all. It was so sudden. One minute, they were there, trying to ambush us and the next minute, they were dismembered, quartered...I cannot describe it.” Wolfram shuddered.

“My only regret is that it was Yuuri that had to do it. If I had this day to live again...I would have taken care of things. I would have found a way.”

Wolfram stroked Yuuri’s hair softly, his eyes on the king’s sleeping face.

“They deserved their fate…but _not_...Yuuri should not have been the one.”

Shibuya looked so young asleep, much like the boy he knew from their school years. Murata slid out of the bed, cursing quietly as his bare feet touched the cool floor. Not even the cool carpets could stop the cold seeping upwards. The king’s chambers were much warmer than other parts of the castle, but it was still way too cold for Murata’s liking. He walked around the other side of the large bed and slid in so he was behind Wolfram and put his arms around him. He enjoyed the heat of a warm body. Wolfram squeezed his hands and leaned back a little for comfort, one hand still holding onto Shibuya’s.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take a while for him to recover, if ever,” Wolfram whispered, his voice full of grief. “And all because of those low life scum bastards. The village had humans. It makes no sense. To see children killed like that. It reminded me of when Greta was little, of Huber and Muriel. How could they kill children? But even with the killers gone, it makes no sense. It doesn’t change anything.”

“It never makes sense,” Murata responded sadly. “Do you have any idea of who it was?” He asked gently.

“Lord Sebastian… Badly dressed as they were, they held his banner.”

Dai Shimaron had fallen into a civil war after the former king was assassinated, a war that Yuuri had unsuccessfully tried to end and, now, their efforts were restricted to keeping the civil war contained, protecting the kingdom’s borders. Banditry had increased, with desperate men crossing the border, and Yuuri had accepted a growing number of refugees, much to certain Aristocrats dismay. Yet, until now, there had been no activity directed against Shin Makoku from any of the feuding Lords of Dai Shimaron.

Lord Sebastian had been gaining strength in the fight. The older human lord had taken up the cause and had protected, as well as championed, Prince Saralegui, who was from Small Shimaron, a country that had been annexed into Dai Shimaron several years before and had become a major province in the Shimaron kingdom.

There had been persistent rumours that the prospective heir to the throne had been killed in the fierce fighting a few years earlier. Yozak, on the other hand, had good intelligence which suggested that Saralegui still lived.

Lord Avison Sebastian’s territories shared their border, specifically Lord von Radford’s province, however, up until now, he had left mazoku lands alone.

It wasn’t smart to antagonise a superpower while fighting an ongoing battle on the other front. Yozak had placed many men in key areas of what remained of Dai Shimaron, had lost many in the fierce fighting, and, himself, gone in with some close calls until Sir Weller had forbidden Yozak crossing the border. Despite that, Yozak had been thorough with coordinating and gathering data on the events going on, and nowhere was there any hint that Lord Sebastian had set his sights on their land. In fact, from what Murata had believed, Lord Sebastian was an honourable man. Attacking a mazoku village without provocation was out of character.

“It makes no sense,” Wolfram said again. “He had nothing to gain by such a cowardly attack, and everything to lose,” Wolfram paused “Come spring, we will have to go to war. The Aristocrats will not stand for such an attack to go unanswered and I don’t know if Yuuri would even oppose it strongly, not after today, after what he saw.”

Murata had many thoughts on that subject. It seemed very convenient that one of their villages would be sacked only hours before the king’s party just happened by, but he’d wait for the right moment to think on the full implications of that, until he had read the briefing and had time to question Wolfram further.

“Yuuri will recover...” Murata assured Wolfram. “He does hurt so much for others, but he is resilient. We just need to keep an eye that he doesn’t hide his pain from us. That we are there for him.”

Wolfram snorted. “The wimp would be stupid enough to not try to worry us.”

Murata got up on an elbow and kissed just underneath Wolfram’s jaw where he knew he was sensitive as a distraction.

“I cannot sleep. I’m afraid I’ll see those villagers if I close my eyes.”

Wolfram guided his hand to the slow growing erection between the prince’s legs, the mood in the room changing.

“Since, I can’t sleep… Murata, please make me feel good?” Wolfram’s voice was breathy and pleading and Murata suddenly felt very warm.

Yuuri would not stir until mid-morning, even if they were loud. Murata also needed a distraction, a way to find sleep, and this was familiar, reassuring, and exciting.

Murata would make it good for Wolfram. He knew the prince’s body well. All the places to touch, or not touch, to make him beg for release, to exhaust both their bodies so that sleep would come easily.

Still on their sides, with Wolfram’s arse rubbing flush against his covered groin, Murata pushed the fine material of Wolfram’s nightgown upwards and rubbed the base of Wolfram’s thickening shaft lightly in a teasing circle with his thumb. Wolfram made a breathy noise in the back of his throat, one that Murata had come to know and love.

Oh so slowly, Murata pushed Wolfram on his back and admired the view as he splayed his hands on the inside of Wolfram’s thighs, nightgown pushed up high, taut stomach tense with anticipation. Murata enjoyed the feel of the muscles under his hands, strong and fit from years of horse riding and such long, beautiful legs.

Wolfram was striking; even with the diffuse light of the candles on the chamber walls, he could see that, aesthetically, the prince was as perfect in looks as a mazoku could be. Wolfram had grown up to be ethereal. When he was younger, he had shared a marked similarity with Shinou, but, full grown, there were some clear differences. Wolfram had inherited more of his mother’s traits while, at other angles, his features held the distinctive Bielefeld look. He had a beautiful face, only faintly masculine, just shy of androgynous, reminding Murata of a renaissance painted angel. Wolfram’s delicate facial features hid great strength of personality and power, at least for those who did not bother to look further.

Murata’s hands slid down the inner thighs to Wolfram’s knees. There was certainly no mistaking the prince’s masculinity with his body. His skin was unblemished, only holding a few faint scars over strong muscles. Wolfram’s frame was wiry and thin, healthy flush of colour and only a slight softness with his buttocks, which Murata enjoyed touching.

It was heady to have Wolfram beneath him in that way; allowing him complete access, permission to touch with fingers and tongue.

Wolfram did not trust easily, not with his heart or his body. But, when he did, he opened himself fully to Murata and to Yuuri, not holding back anything. That was a precious gift that Murata treated with care.

It had taken a while for Murata to determine that Wolfram’s need to yield in love making had nothing to do with his position as Sage and with Yuuri’s position as King. Instead, it was borne from a true desire.

Wolfram _loved_ men and he enjoyed having his partners take the lead in the bedroom. Given Wolfram’s deep-rooted prejudices care of his father’s family, this was fortunate. Murata had no doubt that if Wolfram had a preference for being on top, the prince would have been reluctant to act on his natural desires, suppressing them and sacrificing his needs in a misplaced sense of what was right for his status beside the Demon King.

Except, it was undeniable that Wolfram loved to submit. Wolfram’s passion and interest could not be hidden when they were together and naked.

Murata licked under Wolfram’s shaft from root to the head and, one hand pinning Wolfram’s hips while his other thumb circled the hole under his sac and Wolfram pushed his hands into Murata’s hair, encouraging him. Perhaps _submit_ wasn’t the correct word to use, Murata mused happily as Wolfram wrenched his hair a little roughly when he pulled away from the engorged shaft in front of him. He could feel himself getting hard just from this and he resisted the urge to touch himself, knowing that it would be sweeter to wait as he wetted his thumb and then slowly buried it into Wolfram’s twitching entrance.

To have one’s true desire accepted by social mores was a great freedom, Murata reflected, as he gave another wet swipe with his tongue around Wolfram’s shaft and enjoyed pulling another throaty sound from the prince. It was such a joy to see someone express their true self openly without fear or doubt, watching Wolfram delight in his body, without any shame.

Murata was more than happy to give Wolfram what he needed. For, his own preferences were much more...diverse and easily matched the needs of Wolfram, Yuuri, and Yuuri’s alter ego.

Murata pushed another finger in further and hooked it _just_ so, so he could brush the bundle of nerves that Wolfram body was wired to find intense pleasure in, and he kissed the root of Wolfram’s shaft as the body grinded down on his fingers impatiently.

Murata was a little jealous. He liked being fucked but his body wasn’t built to feel it as intensely as Wolfram so clearly did, and Murata was, as far as he knew, the only living person who could know that for certain. In his former lives, he’d lived in other male bodies which enjoyed having those inner places massaged far more strongly and some where it was plain uncomfortable. Murata’s own enjoyment came more from the feeling of letting go, of truly submitting, a preference of the mind. The physical gratification was nice, but he didn’t have the same intense stimulation from within like Wolfram enjoyed.

One thing Murata was sure of, at this moment, he wanted to take Wolfram just as badly as Wolfram wanted to be taken.

Murata traced his thumbs upwards up behind his tight sac but purposely not caressing the skin that Wolfram sorely wanted to be touched.

“Murata... _Ken!_ ” Wolfram said, his tone more an order than a request, the only time that Wolfram ever used his first name.

Murata hummed happily, his lips resting in the join between thigh and groin and pushed his finger in, brushing against that spot again and Wolfram hastily reached over and grabbed the oil that was on the side table and then pushed himself upwards so he could pull his nightgown off and Murata scrambled to help Wolfram, taking the opportunity for a deep long satisfying kiss.

Wolfram let go and with unsteady fingers unbuttoned Murata’s shirt and Murata pulled it off onto the floor, he only had to take his pants off and they would be both naked.

It had been too long.

Letting go, Murata emptied a generous amount of oil into his palms, and he pushed his pyjama pants off in a clumsy movement. _Finally_ , Murata stroked the oil onto his member, keeping the pressure light although he wanted more. Turning towards Wolfram he found himself trapped as Wolfram’s strong legs hooked around his waist and pulled him in.

“Hurry up,” Wolfram demanded, voice thick with need.

Murata pulled Wolfram’s legs over his shoulders for deeper penetration that he knew Wolfram craved and he pushed himself into that tight passage and Wolfram groaned sinfully, his head arched upwards as he strained to have Murata’s thick length inside him.

Tight, glorious heat. Murata waited for that moment that Wolfram relaxed around him, inhaling deep breaths and resisting the urge to move. Gradually, Murata pushed out, and back in, thrusting the head of his member directly into Wolfram’s sweet spot. Murata let his body take over, the rhythm being picked up by Wolfram, body bent double, grinding up to meet each thrust and each breathy moan spurred Murata on.

Every once in a while, if Murata and Yuuri were patient and careful, they could make Wolfram come without ever touching the prince’s erection, a slow, delicious torture that kept them both on edge for awhile, but that wasn’t his plan for tonight.

After a few more thrusts, Murata grabbed Wolfram’s length, slick with sweat and pre-come and the oil that still coated his palm. He stroked it to his thrusts at the exact pressure Wolfram appreciated, the pleasure along his length getting more and more intense, sheathed inside that tight heat.

With a high pitched groan, Wolfram stilled around him, clenching his length tight, his hot seed spilling over Murata’s palm. The delicious tightness pushed Murata over the edge and he came hard, thrusting into Wolfram uncontrollably a few times before collapsing onto Wolfram’s chest, sweaty and sated.

It took a little while for the real world to establish itself on Murata senses. Wolfram was combing his hair softly, bits of it had fallen free from the loose braid he placed it in when he slept, small strands pasted to the sweat on his face. This was one of his favourite moments with Wolfram, a good orgasm always mellowed the prince out, making him very affectionate and compliant, a rare combination.

Murata pushed himself off, and to the side, reaching underneath the bed where Wolfram had ordered the maids to leave a basin full of water and a wet cloth daily and he cleaned himself and Wolfram carefully while Wolfram continued to touch his cheek and his forehead, his eyes beaming with blind adoration. Putting aside the cloth he traced his fingers along the prince’s collarbone.

Even after all this time, Wolfram looked up to him, and, as always, it elicited mixed feelings in Murata. Pleased that someone had such faith in him, yet embarrassed and a little wistful that Wolfram still couldn’t see him as the person he was, not _entirely_ , not the way that Wolfram looked to Yuuri. Or the way that Yuuri understood him. But Wolfram was so open and honest with Murata, when, with others, he was not. For that reason, Murata couldn’t feel too bad.

Murata grabbed Wolfram’s hands that were still caressing his cheeks and kissed the inside of the beautifully formed wrist and then higher with another light kiss to Wolfram’s ring finger, the gold band warm against his lips. Such trust was never to be dismissed or taken lightly. Murata would try to be everything that Wolfram saw him as. He’d keep his family safe and he would make things better.

“Thank you,” Wolfram murmured tiredly and Murata placed the wash cloth back under the bed and leaned over and kissed Wolfram on the forehead.

Wolfram looked over to Yuuri, who was still soundly asleep, and Wolfram reached over and touched Yuuri’s cheeks tenderly.

Murata curled up behind Wolfram. Wolfram’s breathing evened out and he slept, his hand resting on top of Yuuri’s.

Murata rested his hand on Wolfram’s waist and tried to still his thoughts.

On a normal night, Wolfram would be sleeping on the other side, and it would be Yuuri talking to him quietly after lovemaking, going over ideas and schedules, and then snuggling against him. Murata would usually disentangle himself and go read in the reference room in the early morning hours.

Now, everything was different. Wolfram was huddled up next to him, the tense way he slept not natural. Yuuri was limp in drugged slumber.

It took longer for sleep to claim him and, when he did sleep, it was filled with desolate dreams where he was alone in the ruined castle, everyone he loved was long gone, and everything turned to dust.

~***~

When Yuuri awoke, he tried not to think. He didn’t know why, but his instincts were telling him that thinking was a terrible idea. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. It was daytime and, by the looks of the light in the room, it was late afternoon.

A warmth next to him alerted him and he looked down to find Wolfram resting on his left. He was on his stomach in slumber, one of his hands across his chest as if to shield Yuuri. Wolfram was in his military uniform, a clean one, but with no boots or jacket. So, he must have been up that day.

A presence brushed his mind tentatively and he recoiled back. _No, I can’t. Go away._

There was hurt and some confusion from the spirit that he shared his body and mind with. Another gentle attempt to soothe came and he mentally flinched before the presence left, leaving behind a shadow of distress.

Yuuri’s mind felt funny, cold. He could faintly feel the Maou. It wasn’t as if he could ever escape it, but it had retreated as far as it could from him. He couldn’t deal...he just couldn’t and his mind short-circuited.

There was a feeling of determination coming from the Maou, but he could not work it out. Before he could try to make sense of it, a sudden flash of red pierced through his mind. The Maou, coming back, scoured his thoughts and he gasped. Wolfram’s eyes opened.

“Yuuri?” Wolfram’s words were slurred, hazy from sleep.

“Its okay,” Yuuri said, a mindless assurance, for a moment not sure where he was or who he was. Yuuri felt empty and strange.

Wolfram got up on his elbow and looked down at him, bits of his hair had fallen free and were framing his green eyes. Wolf still looked tired. Yuuri should have let him rest more.

“Its not ...okay. Don’t be an idiot.”

Wolfram’s eyes belied his insensitive words, his hand in his.

How could he tell Wolfram how he felt? Yuuri wasn’t even sure himself.

“Where’s Murata?” Yuuri asked, partly as a diversion, but more because he wanted to know.

He could only remember part of last night. Everything was blurred in his head and his mouth tasted bitter. He was given velerium. He couldn’t remember drinking it, but the tang was unmistakable.

Yuuri’s forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember. Yuuri recalled Murata holding him, and Wolfram in the bath, and waking once in the night to find Wolfram and Murata in each other’s arms, naked. Yuuri remembered touching both of them, as if to reassure himself they were real. There had been the smell of sex on the bed, the smell of his husbands, home.

“He’s in talks with some of the nobles, Günter and my brother.” Wolfram answered, not elaborating on what those talks were about.

“He’ll be back soon,” Wolfram added.

Yuuri pushed himself upright, the world spinning slightly. Velerium always knocked him out but his mind was happy in the haze. It was easier to hide. _Why did I think that? Hide from what?_

“I should...” he trailed off as Wolfram scrambled up to hold him up. _What should he do?_ He clutched Wolfram tightly. Yuuri was the Demon King, his Kingdom had been attacked, his people hurt. There was another flash of red, like a gaping hole and, with determination, he ignored it. Yuuri had to protect.... _he had to_... He pushed his face into the hollow of Wolfram’s throat.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said quietly to Wolfram in Japanese. It was easier to speak that way. He made things more remote from the affairs of Shin Makoku and he needed that now, though he couldn’t say why. No, he _didn’t_ want to know why.

“Shhhhh, you don’t have to do anything.”

Wolfram was getting quite good at understanding Japanese with Murata’s lessons, but had replied in mazoku. Yuuri’s mind was spinning in circles, attaching itself to random things without reason.

“We’ve got things sorted for now; you just need to rest for a few days.”

Yuuri relaxed into Wolf’s embrace and Wolfram laid back against some pillows, arranging Yuuri’s arms around him. It felt comfortable and safe, and Yuuri let himself drift for a while. It could have been hours or minutes, he couldn’t say.

The bed dipped next to him and he felt a light touch on his head.

“He was awake before, briefly,” Wolfram said in a soft voice. And Yuuri listened, as if from a great distance, still in that place between dreams and awareness.

“How did it go?” Wolfram asked.

It was Murata who replied.

“As expected. Fortunately, the weather is on our side. So, there can‘t be any movement until things thaw. It gives us time to work out what we should do. It was harder to come up with an explanation why Shibuya wasn’t there. We can only stall for so long, a week at most. Without the king’s presence there will be trouble.”

“Lord von Rochford?” Wolfram said morosely.

“Who else?” There was heavy sarcasm in Murata’s voice. “He’s getting bold. Lord von Radford was vocal in his support,” Murata’s became bland with only a hint of anger. “Unfortunately for us, both lords have decided to spend winter in their capital manors. What a coincidence.”

“You can’t possibly think they would have anything to do with this?”

“I think we should keep our mind open to all possibilities, Wolfram. Think of those who would profit from another war.”

Wolfram made a low sound of shock but said nothing further. There was a lull for a moment and Yuuri felt a light touch on his forehead.

“How was he?” Murata said. His second husband suddenly sounded tired.

Yuuri felt Wolfram card his hair gently. “Still fuzzy. He doesn’t seem to remember anything. How much did you give him?” Wolfram voice was a little disapproving.

“A double-dose, not enough to harm him. It will keep him calm for a little while, but it shouldn’t have interfered with his memory. I imagine Shibuya isn’t ready to face up to it yet.”

“Maybe,” Wolfram said. “But, perhaps, he won’t be able to, the Maou-“

“It wasn’t just the Maou,” Murata’s voice was devoid of inflection, cutting Wolfram’s words short cleanly. “He remembered last night...Yuuri was there, I think-”

Yuuri really didn’t want to hear this, and he clutched Wolfram harder and Murata’s voice stopped mid-way.

“Yuuri...love?” Wolfram asked.

With great reluctance Yuuri lifted his head. Murata was on his knees next to him, in his official outfit. His hair braided back severely in the conservative fashion Yuuri knew Murata disliked but wore when in important meetings, his eyes dark behind his glasses, giving little away.

“I...can I have some water?” He fell back into Japanese. Yuuri tried to clear his mind as Murata pulled a jug from beside the bed and poured it into a cup. His thoughts were still muddled. Everything was difficult, illusive.

Yuuri gulped the water down. His throat was parched.

“What happened?” Yuuri asked.

There was a pause and Murata responded.

“You and Wolfram went to the border, to investigate some activity. Do you not remember?”

“Not...really.”

Images came into his head, snapshots jumbled, making no sense.

“I don’t know. What am I not ready to face, Ken?” Yuuri asked, looking at Murata, and if the Sage seemed surprised he overheard the previous conversation, he didn’t show it.

Usually, Murata’s serenity in difficult times was a relief to Yuuri. But, this time, it only made things worse. He needed Murata, the man, not the indomitable Sage.

“There was a skirmish with the enemy,” Wolfram answered instead. “It got violent...you don’t remember?”

Yuuri closed his eyes and there was another flash of red and pain...then blackness. And, when his head cleared, he found himself curled up against Wolfram, tears leaking from his eyes as Murata rubbed his back.

“Don’t try too hard,” Murata said in that soothing voice of his. “You will remember when you are ready. For now, you just need to rest.”

“Did I get hurt? Is everyone okay?” He asked, and Yuuri hated how plaintive his voice sounded. He was the Demon King, a grown man, not a child. And the quick look that Yuuri caught Wolfram giving Murata scared him more than anything else. Wolfram was deeply worried.

“No, you’re fine, Yuuri,” Murata held his eye. “You went through some trauma; it is natural that you have a little memory loss. When you’re ready, it will come back.”

Yuuri noticed that he didn’t say anything about anyone else.

“People got hurt, though-” there was another flash of red and he managed not to show any outward sign at the flash of pain, but he was sure that Wolfram felt the flinch in his body.

“The enemy soldiers that were attacking the village were taken care of,” Wolfram said quietly, and Yuuri didn’t have to be told what that meant. “There were no survivors from the village.”

Yuuri digested that information. He was sure there was much more that he wasn’t being told and, by the way Murata was acting, he doubted he would be told today. Maybe having the memory come back to him normally would be healthier, but the need to know was hurting him… On the other hand, he was afraid to try again; the pain was still fresh in his head. Was this normal for memory loss? And why was he suddenly afraid to speak to the Maou?

But he kept all these thoughts to himself.

“It will get better,” Wolfram said, speaking in Japanese, his accent thick but easy to understand.

Yuuri held his hand tightly.

~***~

Wolfram was wrong.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, maybe five days, four? Yuuri was fast losing track.

Yuuri was quietly rebraiding Murata’s hair which he had pulled loose, concentrating hard on the feel of the hair on his fingers and placing the strands just _so_ , making sure not to wake his husband. Anything so he didn’t have to think, to work through the knots of anxiety in his heart and in his head.

The Maou had stopped trying to offer comfort a while back. Yuuri should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. He missed that connection, when two became one. That’s what the Maou would say, and it was true.

Yuuri rubbed his thumb down the uneven bumps of the braid, it was a bad job, trying to do this laying on his side and he was never that good at the best of times. Wolfram was better at braiding Murata’s hair. Yuuri gently lifted the lopsided braid and let it go and rolled onto his back, tiredly contemplating the decorative moulding on the ceiling, curlicues of flowers and vines.

Poor Murata and Wolf, he thought miserably. He brought them nothing but worry and exhaustion.

Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think straight or order his thoughts easily. He found it hard to focus on anything and the lack of sleep wasn’t helping, either.

But worse than all that were the nightmares. Images of blood. Old scenes that had haunted him for a while were coming back to him in his dreams with vivid clarity: Conrad shot through with arrows, Wolfram covered in blood on the rocky terrain...and Murata, bloody and limp in Wolfram’s arms, the last... That didn’t happen did it?

He wasn’t sure anymore about what was real and what wasn’t.

Yuuri would wake up screaming and _screaming_ in terror, not knowing what was real or where he was, until he felt Wolf’s hand rubbing his back and Murata’s calming voice. Yuuri not sleeping meant nobody else was, either. He knew he should be out talking to the Aristocrats, talking to Gwendal and Conrad about strategy, but then he got confused about the time and where he was. Murata would offer him some more tea, a very watered down tang from the first night, and he’d get some few hours asleep.

But the velerium wasn’t working as well anymore. Not to mention, every time he tried to think about what happened out near the border, the pain would take hold of his skull, stronger each time, or, maybe, it just seemed that way. Yuuri just wished...he _wished_ he would stop feeling so confused and tired, and disordered so that things could just go away for a while.

He got up slowly and Murata didn’t stir.

Time had been so hard to measure these days. Wolf and Murata had been with him most of the time, and he was sure that Conrad had been here for a while, sitting on the divan and giving him a sad smile as he dozed while Wolf and Murata were off somewhere, or had it been Gisela? He couldn’t remember.

He wondered vaguely where Greta was, Huber and Muriel. He missed them so. Shouldn’t they be here? And where was Wolfram?

Yuuri wandered out into the shared living space in his pyjamas. Everything looked so odd. He was rarely here during the day and the light fell differently on things. He touched one of the vases on the mantelpiece. He didn’t think he’d ever really looked carefully at all the finery around him, taking it for granted. How odd.

His eyes fell onto the cupboard that Murata stored the medicinal herbs and powders, on the right of, to Yuuri’s eyes, the old-fashioned bellied oven that was considered the height of technology in Shin Makoku. Murata kept the velerium there. Maybe...maybe if he had a stronger amount, he could sleep longer and then, when he woke, he would be able to think again.

The Maou stirred in his head and Yuuri almost let him in, grateful for some contact. But, no, there was a reason why the Maou was not wanted. He couldn’t remember why but the disgust and betrayal were strong and he ignored the spirit, pushing him away.

The pot on the oven was only lukewarm, but it would do. He filled the cup. Opening the cupboard, Yuuri found the small blue jar and opened it, his face scrunching in distaste as he tried not to gag at the strong, bitter smell. The jar was quarter filled, and he poured a dose into the cup, much more than he’d ever had before. The bitter smell was potent and he shoved the jar back into the cupboard.

He sat heavily on the red sofa and contemplated the cup.

He killed those men. He wasn’t sure how, but he was certain it was true.
    
    
      
     _The enemy soldiers that were attacking the village were taken care of._
      
    

Nobody would give him a straight answer, but the conversation he overheard before he awoke the first time...the _second time_ , gave him a clue. He’d killed people and his mind had shut down in defense. That was what Murata thought. That was the thing he could not face.
    
    
      
     _I imagine Shibuya isn’t ready to face up to it yet_
      
    

Yuuri didn’t believe in death as a punishment. In Shin Makoku, he’d ended the death penalty as soon as he had learnt of it. Wolfram had not been pleased, nor had Gwendal, but Yuuri knew it was the right thing to do. It wasn’t up to him to kill others; everyone deserved a chance, a chance to reform, to change. How could he have killed those men?

Perhaps, it would be a good idea for Wolfram to take over for a little while...he would be a better Demon King and Murata would help. A year back, he’d signed Wolfram in as heir, in the event of his death, not that he was worried about that. The Maou had given him a long life, enough for him to live a full mazoku life, probably longer, like Ulrike. But, on the advice of Günter and Gwendal, he’d signed the form in the event of him being ill or injured.

Yuuri hadn’t told Wolfram that yet. He had been meaning to, though. There was also the deal he’d made for Murata...perhaps that didn’t hold anymore with Yuuri pushing the Maou away.

Too _many_ secrets. He didn’t have the right to get mad at Murata for any of his. Yuuri was selfish, hurting others around him. Wasn’t it bad enough he killed?

In a horrible loop, his mind kept coming back to that stark reality. There was no escape.

What type of a leader could he be as a vicious butcher? He looked down at the drink, his head still so slow. It was like trying to swim through syrup. If he drank some medicine, for once have a clear head, he’d think about Wolfram being king then.

Yuuri took a mouthful and forced it down. It was vile, even worse with warm water. It was better to gulp the rest down. With force, he shoved the Maou from his mind as much as he could and took a deep breath and put the cup to his lips.

He jumped when the cup was knocked from his hand and smashed into shards below. He watched, confused, as the liquid spread across the richly decorated carpet.

“What _were_ you thinking?” Wolfram yelled at him as he was roughly pulled up by an elbow onto his feet. Puzzled, he looked up into Wolfram’s red face. Why was Wolfram so tall?

“How much have you had?” Wolfram demanded and Yuuri knew he had done something wrong. He didn’t know what, but he’d disappointed Wolfram.

He was hopeless, not being able to work, not being able to protect the kingdom, _not_ being able to think.

“Only a little,” Yuuri blurted out, as the room started spinning, “Truth is… You’d make a better king, Wolf.”

Wolfram looked horrified at his words and that was the last thing he saw before darkness took him.

~***~

Wolfram paced in their private reference room, back and forth, in front of the large windows. Seven paces from one book case covered side to another and back again. Wolfram knew it well; he’d done enough pacing in this exact room over the years.

 _I don’t want to be king_ , he thought. _What was Yuuri thinking...what did he mean?_

Yuuri was Demon King, would _always_ be king. That was how it was, how it was meant to be, would always be.

Every now and again, he’d pause his pacing and watched as the world continued in the hedged garden courtyard below. A maid scurried across, using it as a shortcut from the storeroom through to the kitchens. She was holding a woollen shawl close around her shoulders against the frigid air outside. A moment later, one of Gwendal’s soldiers also hurried by in the opposite direction, presumably on his way to the stables for an errand, wearing a thick coat and riding gloves.

Wolfram envied him. He’d love a brisk ride out into the country on his mare, even on a cold day like this, the better to clear his head. Wolfram stifled a guilty sigh and turned, leaning against the wall, watching Murata rifle though a book, effortlessly ignoring Wolfram’s pacing and agitation.

He respected Murata’s knowledge and wisdom. Wolfram had very little need of humility when it came to his education and had been tutored intensively on a variety of subjects for decades, suitable for his rank. Wolfram knew he was bright, had been told as much by family and numerous tutors. Yet, compared to Murata Ken, Wolfram knew he was a simpleton. Wolfram felt no shame in that comparison. Murata was the Sage and his wisdom was without par, all that was right for the kingdom and for the Royal Household.

But for all that, Murata could be extremely dense at times, favouring his mind over his intuition and heart.

So, Wolfram did what he’d never dream of doing even a few years ago. He’d gotten to know the man enough to realise he was fallible and very much touchable.

Wolfram walked around next to Murata, and, still standing pushed the opened book the husband of his heart was reading away gently, gaining Murata’s slightly irritated and tired gaze.

“This isn’t psychololol…” Wolfram gave up on the difficult pronunciation, “whatever science Earth doctors use to describe the mind. This affliction that Yuuri is suffering from, this is more to do with the forces of the world here. Some type of magic.”

Wolfram crossed his arms and stood tall, obstinate.

Murata blinked up at him, and Wolfram thought he saw a little glimpse of surprise, although Wolfram’s couldn’t work out why.

Murata pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. When Murata looked up again at Wolfram his beautiful dark eyes behind them were vulnerable, unguarded in a way that few people would ever see and, for a moment, Wolfram felt guilty, especially after the events of the morning. Nonetheless, Wolfram wasn’t going to let this drop, no matter how rational or annoyingly calm Murata would be. Wolfram knew magic. He could _feel_ it, could smell it on Yuuri every time he flinched in pain, nothing like any magic Wolfram was familiar with in his everyday life, like casting fire or the healing he felt from Gisela and sometimes Murata, but still very distinctive.

Murata cocked his head and leaned back, closed his eyes and rubbed his brow slowly and the continued silence worried Wolfram.

The day had been hard. After Yuuri had collapsed, Murata had slapped the king awake, visibly awoken from Wolfram’s loud voice. Wolfram had gone to order Gisela’s presence. He’d gotten back in time to watch Murata force down some other medicine down Yuuri’s throat.

Yuuri was struggling weakly against Murata’s chest, not quite aware and Wolfram felt horrible to see him hurting so and he gave Murata a dark look.

Wolfram didn’t think Yuuri needed any more medicine. If it was anyone else other than Murata, he would have put a stop to it. Indeed, if it was anyone else restraining Yuuri that way, they would count themselves fortunate if they escaped with just two broken arms.

Murata did not miss his censure.

“I’m giving him an emetic. It will make him vomit up whatever he took. Please, get me a bucket.”

There was no apology in Murata’s clipped instructions.

There was a second of challenging silence.

“Yuuri said he didn’t take much,” Wolfram countered, but he grabbed the bucket next the fireplace anyway.

“I doubt Yuuri would know what he took in his condition,” Murata snapped at him. There were dark shadows under his eyes. “I can smell it. It’s at least four times what is safe… It’s probably a fatal dose for a magically gifted half-breed. Even a little bit at such a high dose can cause lasting damage. It needs to be forced out of his system.”

Murata had emptied the contents down Yuuri’s throat and was holding him against his chest, rubbing soothing circles on Yuuri’s back as he spoke.

“What else _would_ you have me do, Bielefeld?” Murata gave him a sad pleading look.
    
    
      
     _You’d make a better king, Wolf._
      
    

Wolfram was exhausted, sleep deprived from the last week, afraid for Yuuri’s welfare, and confused. It was frightening to see Murata so troubled. Yet, Murata had known what to do, how to help. Wolfram was useless, and he did what he always did in those situations and lashed out.

“You _were_ supposed to be keeping an eye on him!” Wolfram was not able to suppress the hysterics in his voice, placing the bucket next to the sofa with a thump.

Why would Yuuri do this? Was it deliberate?

A dangerous spark glinted in Murata’s eyes but, before things came to a pass, it was Yuuri who stopped them, clutching onto Murata’s arm weakly and looking up into Wolfram’s face. His own face pale and sickly. “ _Please_ , Wolf, Murata, _don’t_...” and, fortunately, Murata had pushed him down over the bucket before Yuuri had retched up the foul smelling velerium along with some of the breakfast he’d managed to get down that morning.

Gisela had come a few moments later and had looked Yuuri over. For the moment, Yuuri was well as could be expected, being watched over by Gisela in bed. The velerium that Yuuri had taken had not caused any damage. Wolfram could see now that it was Murata’s fast thinking that prevented a tragedy. His thoughts were wrenched back into the present as Murata spoke.

“.... you are right. I didn’t want to believe it. It would be easier if it was just psychological trauma, as difficult as that would be, but the longer this goes on…and the pain Yuuri feels, it’s more than that,” Murata said softly.

Murata’s concession surprised him. Wolfram felt the air deflate out of him and sat down in the chair next to Murata.

The Sage looked down again at his glasses, which he held in his hands so intently, as if he was trying to find answers in the lenses.

“Yes, the pain he suffers when he tries to remember. I think...I think it is the Maou,” Wolfram said carefully.

Murata nodded but didn’t venture forth any opinion and slowly placed his glasses on the table.

“So, we talk to the Maou. Tell him to stop if he is behind this,” Wolfram said finally.

Wolfram didn’t want to think about what they would do if the Maou refused to help.

Murata nodded not looking at him directly. And Wolfram wanted to cry, or break something. He was never good at being calm in these situations, always relying on Yuuri’s patient optimism and Murata’s solid calmness. It was unfair of him to expect Murata to keep it together all the time. And, so often over the years, he had become the glue to keeping them from spinning off in different directions, always being the mature one while Wolfram was allowed to indulge his own feelings.

Wolfram thought he’d learned better when Murata had separated from them in the third year for a few months. But this crisis with Yuuri, showed how brittle things could be. It was always Yuuri _and_ Murata or Yuuri _and_ Wolfram which tied them together in moments of pressure. Those ties kept them together, united. But now, it was Wolfram _and_ Murata that had to be strong for Yuuri and work together. In this, he was afraid that he had failed Murata.

“I’m...sorry for what I said to you before. What happened, it wasn’t your fault. I let my temper get the better of me.”

Wolfram took hold of Murata’s hand slowly and then carefully pulled out the messy hair that Murata hadn’t fixed since this morning, sticking out in an odd angle.

 _What in Shinou’s name was going on with his braid?_

Murata sighed, and closed he eyes, letting Wolfram pull his braid free and rake his fingers through the thick tresses gently. Wolfram was forever captivated by the jet black hair that Murata shared with Yuuri, so rare in Shin Makoku, so beautiful.

“It was _my fault_ ,” Murata said tiredly, eyes still closed as he allowed Wolfram to tend to his hair, “it was my responsibility to keep an eye on him, and I should have locked up the medicines. I didn’t think, but that’s no excuse. I know better-”

“You were tired. Don’t be silly,” Wolfram said, wishing he had a comb on hand; there was only so much he could do with his fingers.

Murata needed to get his ends trimmed as well, he thought as he looked critically at the split ends. He’d have to see to that when the crisis was over. He patted the hair down as neatly as he could.

Murata didn’t respond to him and, after a moment, returned to the topic at hand. Wolfram frowned but kept the peace as Murata spoke.

“You are right. Talking to the Maou is the only feasible choice we have at present. I think we should try to rest tonight, and talk to him in the morning when we are thinking clearer.”

“And if the Maou doesn’t want to talk?” Wolfram asked.

 _Or if Yuuri doesn’t let the Maou talk?_

Murata gave him a grim look, his black hair now free and framing his face. Murata shrugged.

“We’ll work that out if that becomes an issue.”

Wolfram leaned forward and pulled Murata into a tight embrace, whether it was to comfort Murata or himself he wasn’t sure.

~***~

Yuuri looked even worse, if that was possible, fidgeting with the bed clothes nervously, almost a twitch and it seemed to Wolfram that he had faded, had become washed out. And it had only been a week.

“You think that it is the Maou who is causing this?”

“Yes,” both Wolfram and Murata said at the same time, and there was a shadow of a smile from Yuuri at their joint agreement.

Wolfram wasn’t going to let Murata do this alone. He loved the man dearly, but he could be a little blunt, _too_ blunt. Wolfram was on Yuuri’s right, his legs folded beneath him on the bed. Murata was seated primly on a chair next the bed, further on the right.

“I don’t know.” Yuuri looked down at the blanket below, his fringe covering his expression.

“Why, Yuuri? What are you afraid of?” Wolfram asked. “I know you want to remember.”

Yuuri had been trying for days, at least at first.

“It’s not that. I just...” Yuuri voice trailed off miserably.

“Are you afraid of the Maou?” Murata asked quietly and Wolfram turned to look at the Sage in surprise. Murata pushed his glasses up casually, betraying very little.

Murata really had to drop that calm look; _you aren’t fooling anyone, Murata_. But it was Murata’s words that worried him. Why would Yuuri be afraid of the Maou? Up until now, he’d never even remotely thought the Maou would harm Yuuri intentionally, but now he wasn’t so sure.

The Maou was the one thing Wolfram could not protect Yuuri from. He’d never even thought of it as a possibility. No, if the spirit was behind this, it was for a good reason.

“No...yes. I’m angry at him and I don’t know why. I don’t want to deal with him. It scares me.” Yuuri admitted.

Yuuri’s hands clutched the blankets even harder, white knuckled.

“I don’t think you’re going to get better, Yuuri, until you try,” Wolfram said gently.

“Wolfram is right,” Murata said and Wolfram was grateful that Murata was letting him take the lead with Yuuri.

Yuuri nodded, not disagreeing, his shoulders tense. There was a pause and then Yuuri looked at both of them.

“Okay...yeah, okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Yuuri closed his eyes. _My king is so brave and determined_ , Wolfram thought proudly.

The atmosphere changed. The Maou had come and the Maou’s eyes snapped open and regarded them both with strange alien eyes, shoulders straight, a wholly different demeanour.

“You almost let my twin self go,” the Maou looked at both of them and it was a sudden accusation which Wolfram could not let pass.

“It was _you_ who caused this, ripping those enemy soldiers to pieces. This is not Yuuri’s way,” Wolfram countered, his voice rising, and he ignored the hand that Murata put on his knee in warning.

He had no fear of the Maou. As angry as the Maou got, he would never hurt either of them any more than Yuuri would. And Wolfram loved them both dearly, but could not hold his tongue when he disagreed.

 _I’m in a relationship with three other men_ , Wolfram suddenly thought with dark humour and suppressed a sudden nervous laughter.

The Maou’s body glowed blue and he looked straight at Wolfram, his eyes uncompromising.

“It _needed_ to be done and my twin agreed. We were one in accord. We were full of fury at this sacrilege.”

Wolfram knew this was the truth. The Maou was incapable of falsehoods. It didn’t change anything, or how he felt about Yuuri. This was just an aberration.

“But, afterwards, he felt guilt at what he did,” Murata said, bringing the Maou’s attention away from Wolfram to Murata.

“Is Yuuri here? Can he hear this?” Murata added, there was a note of tension in his voice.

“No, he is not. He has shut himself away from me,” The Maou responded, and this was the first time in a while that Wolfram could remember the Maou being alone, without the merge with Yuuri.

“It is getting harder.” The Maou said quietly, as if he was talking to himself. He then addressed Murata.

“I do not know what this guilt is, but he is unhappy. The death of those villains has caused him so much suffering. I do not understand why. They _needed_ to die. We _were_ in accord,” The Maou’s voice was desolate. “Now, my twin must be protected. What is mine _must_ be protected,” he looked at Wolfram and Murata.

Wolfram had no doubt he was counted as something that the Maou owned. Where once that would have comforted him, would have made him feel special, this troubled him and he shivered unwilling to think through the full implications of the nature deity’s claim.

“So you took those memories away,” Murata said in an extremely neutral voice.

“They made him miserable,” The Maou said as if this was an obvious solution. “He would not accept my comfort and neither of you could make it better. He would not accept my help, even when he faced ruin with these accursed drugs.”

The Maou gave Murata a stern look.

“These things take time,” Wolfram said indignantly, “You can’t fix people that way. It _takes_ time. And the drugs helped him sleep. _You_ weren’t able to protect him from the nightmares.”

“He hurts. I do not understand,” the Maou said disregarding Wolfram’s outburst. The Maou was so infuriating at times and the spirit looked at them expectantly, looking to them for answers. “He hurts, when he should not. My understanding is defective.”

“You need to give us time, Maou. Human minds, they are very delicate. By pulling his memories you caused him more pain and confusion. Yuuri needs those memories, as painful as they are, to get better, to heal,” Murata told the spirit gently.

“But he won’t...he will not heal entirely. This is a stain I cannot remove. If I return that moment, that scene. It will _never_ go away.”

A tear fell down from the Maou’s eyes, so confused and bewildered. And Wolfram could understand his agony. He felt the same. Maybe, the Maou did understand guilt. He just didn’t know it.
    
    
      
     _I’m afraid it’s going to take a while for him to recover, if ever._
      
    

What the Maou willed was as good as done. Wolfram doubted that the spirit had ever known any enemy he could not defeat, any challenge that could not be overcome with raw power.

The Maou was defeated, puzzled by mortal emotions and he did not understand why.

Murata reached over and took the Maou’s hand and the Maou looked down at it as if he didn’t know what it was.

“This is how humans learn and grow,” Murata said quietly.

Wolfram frowned, a little annoyed at the continued use of “human.” Yuuri was mazoku, but now was not the time to quibble.

“This is how you will grow, both of you, together,” Murata assured the Maou. “But only if you let him remember.”

The Maou didn’t seem entirely convinced but nodded.

“I believe you, eldest one. I do not understand, but you are beloved and trusted. You will be here for him when the pain returns?” the Maou asked them, giving first Wolfram and then Murata a pointed look, and it was strange to hear the desperate tone in the powerful spirit’s voice.

 _“Always,_ ” Wolfram said fervently, and he added because it was true. “For _both_ of you.”

“Very well. When I let go, he will sleep. When he awakens, the memories will be back. Keep a vigil by his side, for his anguish will be great.”

No sooner had he finished the Maou departed and Yuuri’s body fell back against the numerous pillows, his face slack in slumber.

~***~

“You haven’t really seen much of Europe, have you?” Murata had asked with a smile, “We should do a tour.”

Yuuri thought of all those times that Murata had gone distant in his eyes with memories from the past and, as interesting as it would be to see Europe with Murata’s vast knowledge, he didn’t want to see the Sage. He needed to be with Murata, now more than ever.

Yuuri cast a way for him to get out of this without saying so.

A memory came to him, of watching a movie one lazy holiday afternoon about little people and elves, set in a world which very much reminded him of Shin Makoku.

“Have you been to New Zealand?” Yuuri asked Murata. In any of your lives, that went without saying.

Murata shook his head. “Nor have I. It seems like a fun place to explore. We should go hobbit hunting there.”

He gave Murata a small smile.

“What is a hobbit?” Wolfram had asked.

~***~

There was laughter. That would be Wolfram. Yuuri turned, white curtains obscured the sight, but he could see the end of the bed. The tangled legs, dark and white, gave him an idea of what was going on.

Maybe, he could sleep in a little longer. Leaving the stunning view behind, Yuuri headed back to his family.

~***~

Comments/reviews are always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re wondering about Yuuri and how he fares with the Maou and dealing with his guilt/regret, that is going to be the theme of another story in the series.
> 
> And the place in New Zealand is Milford Sound. I’ve been there and it is truly spectacular. Google image it and you’ll see what I mean.


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